


Good Egg

by dogeared



Category: Hawaii Five-0 (2010)
Genre: Community: h50_flashfic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-16
Updated: 2011-07-16
Packaged: 2017-10-22 02:52:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/232959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dogeared/pseuds/dogeared
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Danny knows eggs, okay.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Good Egg

Late into her pregnancy, when Rachel was up nights and craving salt, Danny used to make her scrambled eggs with potatoes, sliced thick and fried up crisp in the same pan, and then sit on the couch next to her, counting down the days, while she balanced the plate on her belly and ate.

And when Gracie was newborn and tiny, even though both he and Rachel were exhausted all the time, Danny claimed early-morning duty before work—he liked it when the house was quiet, the sky just starting to turn light, his baby girl a warm weight, fed and dozing against his shoulder, when he could hold her secure in one arm, angle her away from the stove, listen to the sizzle of butter as he cracked an egg one-handed.

And after everything had gone wrong, after he and Rachel had split, he couldn't count the number of mornings he'd peeled himself off of whatever couch he'd passed out on the night before, splashed water on his face and scratched blearily at his unshaven cheek, and shuffled into the kitchen to make heaping plates of bacon and eggs for him and Matty, hangover food, the least he could do.

The same battered frying pan and spatula had made it all the way from Jersey with him—when he'd first moved to Hawaii, before he had furniture, before he had a coffee maker, he figured out where the nearest grocery store was and made himself eggs and toast and didn't feel quite so far from home.

So he knows eggs, okay, and it irks him, it really rankles that Steve doesn't like them, especially since the guy has seemed perfectly happy to let Danny do the work of making them for him plenty of times, like when he broke his stupid arm, or after they'd spent so many hours at HQ that it was hard to figure which way was up.

The same guy who's bellied up to his kitchen counter right now, perched on a stool and grinning at Danny.

"I don't know what you're smirking at," Danny says without looking at him, because he's busy taking inventory: eggs from chickens so free-range they were hanging out five backyards away from where they were supposed to be (Danny promised the neighbors he'd have someone from HPD look into it), butter and cream, veggies and fresh herbs in case he wants to get fancy, salt and pepper, dog-eared cookbook. (Why scrambled eggs have to be French, he has no idea, but he's not going to argue with an expert.)

"You're cooking for me," Steve says, reaching over to steal a cherry tomato. Danny hears the faint _pop_ as he bites down and it bursts in his mouth.

"As I recall, I've made eggs for you before, which you only later decided to tell me you thought were terrible."

"Maybe I exaggerated," Steve admits—ha!, Danny thinks—"and anyway, it's how you take care of people," he says, shrugging. "And, uh." He breaks off, clams up, can't quite meet Danny's gaze.

And Danny's looking now, all right—looking at Steve and reeling a little that he's offering up this nugget of Danny's psychology like it's common knowledge, like it was nothing for him to figure it out, to figure Danny out. "So let me get this straight," he says. "You'll eat my substandard eggs because it's an excuse for you to, what, bask in my affection?" Steve's face, trying so hard to be blank, does something complicated—a twitching muscle at the hinge of his jaw, a quirk at the corner of his mouth—and it's enough of an answer.

"Well, I've got news for you," Danny says, feeling magnanimous. Maybe he's figured something out here, too, and he has plenty of affection to spread around, if it comes to that. He brandishes the cookbook. "Julia and I, we got a thing going now, and let me tell you, there might just be a line out that door."

"I'll just have to make sure I'm first, then," Steve says slowly, leaning across the counter and swiping another tomato, looking up at Danny through his lashes, sure of himself again, like he believes, beyond any doubt, that head of Danny's line is exactly where he belongs.


End file.
